Peace Through Victory
by El Hustino
Summary: A spur of the moment work concerning one particularly troubled character. Deals with regret, sin, and insanity. Written in uncharacteristically short chapters.
1. Chapter 1

The flames billowed, enveloping his surroundings. The fire—as great as it were—did nothing to him; he felt no heat, no pain; no sense of the warmth pervaded his senses whatsoever, as if the bright, fiery inferno was nothing more than harmless colors and lights swirling about in the air.

The only light came from the fires around him, as it were the pit of night and not even a star shone, as if hiding from some danger. The moon was gone, as well, deciding it better to leave mortal matters to man.

The area was no place he remembered; he knew not of how he came to be in such a place. More curious than worried, he inspected his surroundings; the fire was expansive and appeared endless. Moving through the flames, still unharmed, he quickly learned the fires were fueled by the wood of cottages.

He stepped back; the roaring fire surrounding him was being fed by the homes of people. In an instantaneous motion without any thought, he plowed through the flames, searching for people in need or a cottage still in tact.

Running, he found the fires to be endless; they burned to the horizon and there was seemingly little else to be seen but orange and red and black. The town he was in—rather, he presumed it to be a town, as the remains of the cottages were prevalent enough to be a town—despite being aflame, had nothing else: in the streets there were no bodies, there were no cries, nothing but flame.

Finding a single cottage that still stood, despite the hungry fire attempting to devour it, he tore the door off. Inside were people that were unharmed but surrounded by the fire which drew ever closer to them. He stepped towards them and offered his hand to one, a woman sitting upon the dirty floor.

She looked up to him; there were no words exchanged, but the look of terror and hate upon her face chilled him. Amongst the raging flames, he felt cold. Offering his hand again in a plead to save her, the others around her—still with their hateful, terrified eyes upon him all the while—moved away from him.

In his horror, they willingly moved into the flames; they cried out in pain, but those eyes of pain still glared at him. So dumbstruck by the fear and hate possessed by these people towards him—fear and hate so strong that they chose fiery death over his protection—he trembled before offering his hand to the woman again, pleading with all his strength in hopes she would take it.

The woman, now crying, backed away from him, nearing the fire; while doing so, she spared only one instant of looking away from his face. She looked to his hand and her terror had grown. Perplexed, he looked down at his hand.

In place of his hand was a giant maul of a claw made of dull scales caked with blood and gore. Terrified, he cried out, but could not hear his voice. Eyes wide and mouth agape, he continued to belt out cries that could not be heard.

The claw—his hand—leapt at his face, but his other arm held it back. The talons wagged hungrily in the air, attempting to overpower his other arm and devour his face. Looking past the giant claw, he saw the woman—still looking at him with eyes of fear and hate—enter the flames.

The cries of the people who tossed themselves into the fate of the fire continued to ring out, but his own cries did nothing. The battle with his own malformed arm continued on as the cries subsided. This did not make matters better, as the cries were replaced by the bubbling broil of the bodies amongst the flames.

Losing control, he cried. His legs shook. His protective arm waned in strength and, in another cry of horror, the lustful claw overtook him and devoured him, just as the fires devoured the world.


	2. Chapter 2

Dank sweat covered him from brow to heel. His chest heaved and his eyes burned; even so, he strained to look into the dark, seemingly silent forest surrounding him.

Nothing.

Surrounded by trees and watched over by the dark sky speckled with stars, he realized he was alone. There was no fire, no victims, no bloodshed. No sound but his own haggard breathing broke the silence of the night. He was alone. Excruciatingly alone.

He looked to his hand; it was his hand: five fingers, pale skin, dirty nails—not the three-taloned, gory, carnivorous claw.

Clenching the hand he had feared to glance upon only moments before, he placed the fist against his forehead and closed his eyes until they strained from pressure. His heart and lungs gradually returned to a natural pace and, slowly, the sweat ceased to flow from his pores.

It had not happened.

Not this time.

Unlike the past, the horrid dream had not turned out to be. The horrid dream had been that and only that; he did not awaken amongst ruin, weapon and armor—neither of which he currently possessed—coated in blood he did not recall spilling, and resting atop the slain.

It had been a trick of his mind.

It had been a…no, he could not bring himself to mutter the word. Even in this context, that word held far too much weight to be used by him. Not this soon. He had only recently fled that accursed, accursed ruin of a castle—and in doing so, fled that armor abhorred and feared by so many.

Including himself.

Remembering little of his escape of the castle, he surmised he fled in a mindless panic before collapsing at the edge of this forest from pain, exhaustion, and terror. Collecting himself and the sole object he possessed—a possession he greatly wished to be without: a large item resembling—despite the unusual shape—a sword covered entirely and tightly with a cloak he would otherwise wear.

Exhausted in a fashion unfathomable by any other human, he hefted himself from the ground and, with his burden upon his back, his feet consciously trudged further into the dark woods.


End file.
